Sherlock Ficlets
by doctorg
Summary: These are ficlets, usually written on Tumblr that I've been posting on AO3 but haven't yet posted here. Because I can't indicate more than one fandom without it being a crossover, I'll sort them by fandom. Each ficlet is a self-contained one-shot. I think most are pretty smut-free, but since I don't want to watch my language I'm rating them all T.
1. The Other One

Ficlet inspired by Mycroft's line in His Last Vow: "I am not given to outbursts of brotherly compassion. You know what happened to the other one." Chapter Text

Sir Edwin stood at parade rest, his eyes on the stark figure of Mycroft Holmes silhouetted against the pale winter sky. The man was gazing out the window at a scrubby patch of garden below, his voice and countenance pensive.

"As my colleague is fond of remarking," Holmes mused, "This country sometimes needs a blunt instrument. Equally, it sometimes needs a dagger — a scalpel wielded with precision and without remorse."

Holmes twisted, gazing through the glass wall at the conference in progress. "There will always come a time when we need Sherlock Holmes."

"If this is some expression of familial sentiment," Sir Edwin began, his voice raising in question on that last word, so foreign to everything he thought he knew about this man.

Mycroft sighed audibly. "Don't be absurd." He pivoted sharply, his cold gaze locked on Sir Edwin. "I am not given to outbursts of _brotherly compassion."_

That forbidding gaze dropped for just a moment before Mycroft raised his eyebrows in mocking inquiry. "You know what happened to the other one."

Sir Edwin fought to keep the grimace off his face, turning back to the window. He had thought it a rumor, carefully cultivated by the enigmatic elder Holmes to strike fear in the hearts of those who might betray him, but if it were actually true…

Another brother, young and brilliant, separated from his siblings by both age and inclination. A mind capable of perceiving patterns in the chaos — mathematical genius exceeding even that of his mother — isolation pulling that genius inexorably toward the intricacies of computer code and networks. And then underneath it all, the hubris of a Holmes — small violations turning to blatant transgressions until no power, foreign or domestic, was safe from the meddling of a single insolent child.

There one day, gone the next. Killed, exiled, imprisoned — no one knew for certain except the man who stood in front of Sir Edwin now.

Sir Edwin had heard one particularly compelling story, that the child had been subsumed into the great system of British government, his talent turned to defending the security of the nation rather than eroding it, his name replaced with a single letter. "Some horses run better in a harness," the gossip had said with a significant lift of his eyebrow, and Sir Edwin had snorted at the implication. Sir Edwin's clearance was the highest in the land. If another Holmes were within the British government, he of all people would know about it.

Wouldn't he?


	2. Lost and Found

Summary: Sherlock Holmes/ John Watson. An AU "How They Met" ficlet inspired by the prompt : "Accidentally taking each other's bags."

Chapter Text

"There is a _human hand_ in your suitcase."

Sherlock had been just bored enough to answer the phone call from an unknown number; now he sat up abruptly, the intolerable ennui falling from him like a cloak.

"Interesting," he hummed into his mobile.

"Are you trying to pretend it doesn't belong to you?" The voice on the other end of the line was pugnacious — stubborn insistence clear under the calm tone.

Sherlock stood up, striding into his bedroom, mobile clamped between his shoulder and jaw as he threw open the door.

"Not at all," he said. "It absolutely belongs to me. That is not the interesting part."

He circled the suitcase on his bed, truly observing it for the first time. Damn Mycroft, insisting on meeting him at the airport and bothering him with his tedious need to "debrief." Sherlock hadn't even looked at the last suitcase left on the luggage return belt before gesturing Mycroft's chauffeur towards it impatiently.

The man on the other end huffed a reluctant laugh, warm and soft in Sherlock's ear. "The human hand in your luggage is _not_ the interesting part?" the man repeated skeptically. "Care to tell me what _is?_"

"_You_ are," Sherlock purred into his mobile, eyes still examining the suitcase. Similar to his in surface appearance — Sherlock was well aware of the benefits of blending into the crowd on occasion — but a much cheaper brand. Old, perhaps even a hand-me-down, but not that worn. He fondled the coolness of the zipper pull for a moment, prolonging the anticipation.

"_I_ am?" There was something angrier in the man's voice now. All the more intriguing — he found being called 'interesting' to be irritating, not flattering as most people would. "I'm just an ordinary bloke who is going to have to do without his toothbrush tonight. You're the one with body parts in your checked luggage. How did you get that through security, anyway?"

Sherlock snorted. "Boring. I have a letter, if needed, that documents that I am carrying medical models. Not that anyone ever asks for it."

"Bollocks. That is not a medical model. That is a human hand, preserved in formaldehyde, quite possibly removed while the victim was still living."

"Oh!" This was _wonderful!_ "How did you know that the hand was not removed postmortem?"

"There is faint bruising evident on the skin at the base of the palm where the assailant held the wrist down, and the jagged edge — hang on, what the hell does it _matter? _Whose hand is it, and why do you have it?"

"You're a doctor!" Sherlock crowed triumphantly. He pulled the zipper of the suitcase open with a flourish.

Brief silence greeted him. "How in the bloody hell did you know that?"

"Obvious. You're familiar both with body parts and medical models, as well as traumatic injury. A funeral director would have been more vocal about the improper means of transport of human remains than the fact that I have them. You could be a forensic scientist, but…"

"Fine, fine. Jesus. Yes, I'm a doctor. Now — "

Sherlock eyed the meticulously-packed contents of the bag. "A _military_ doctor, from the way you've packed your luggage. Recently returned from approximately ten years of service based on the style of your clothing. Invalided out — your right leg, based on the uneven wear of your suitcase wheels. But you pull the suitcase with your right hand and you are left-handed based on the pattern of wear and ink smudges on your cuffs. Some might adopt that habit so that they are free to text with their dominant hand, but you've been out of the country long enough that you prefer to call, not text, as evidenced by your call to me, and so you have an additional injury to your left upper body — shoulder or arm, not enough to incapacitate your left hand for handwriting, but enough to cause you discomfort in dragging the suitcase along. You took a short trip to visit someone, and you took a gift by the size of the space left in your suitcase. Perfume, it's left a lingering scent behind — J'adore by Dior, but not for a girlfriend, not with those horrendous jumpers you also packed for the trip. A traditional fragrance but not motherly, perhaps an older sister."

"That's —"

Sherlock frowned. He had been having fun. He shouldn't have let himself get carried away. This would be over now and the boredom would suck him under again.

"— _brilliant_."

Sherlock bit down hard on his planned response, blinking. "What?" he said stupidly.

"_Absolutely_ brilliant. I mean, just phenomenal. _Extraordinary."_

"Obvious," Sherlock countered uncertainly.

"No." The man's voice brooked no argument. "Just truly amazing."

Sherlock sat down on the bed with a heavy thump. "That's not what people usually say."

"What do they usually say?"

"Piss off."

The man laughed — a true, delighted laugh, and Sherlock found himself joining in. _Remarkable._

"Christ," the man said. "I don't even know how you did that, but…and you never told me what the hell was so interesting, anyway. You didn't know all that about me already, did you? It sounded like you were just figuring it out on the spot."

Sherlock lay back on the bed, speaking to the ceiling. "What is so _interesting_ is that you are a man who found a human hand in a suitcase, determined that it was removed forcibly from a living victim, and yet instead of calling the police or even the airline, you called _me, _the owner of said suitcase. That's quite reckless of you, isn't it Doctor — " he checked the name on the luggage tag "— Watson?"

"John," the man said absently. He cleared his throat awkwardly. "Yes, when you put it that way, I suppose it _was_ rather a dangerous thing to do."

"So why did you do it?" Sherlock asked, genuinely curious. The man's behavior was so deliciously _unpredictable_.

The man — _John_, Sherlock corrected himself mentally — huffed a soft laugh again. "Honestly? I suppose it's because…I've been back in London for five weeks now, and this is the first time I haven't been bored out of my skull."

Sherlock smiled. "There's a restaurant named Angelo's, opposite twenty-two Northumberland Street. The owner owes me a favor. Are you hungry?"

"Starving," John said.

"Aren't you going to ask me if I'm a killer?"

"Would you tell me if you were?"

Sherlock shrugged. "Probably. But I can assure you that I'm not, if that will allow you to enjoy your gnocchi fully."

John laughed again. God, it was intoxicating. "How on _earth_ could you possibly know that I like gnocchi?"

"_Everyone_ likes gnocchi. Eight o'clock?"

John was silent for a long moment. _Say yes_, Sherlock found himself thinking. _Please_.

"I'll be there. I shouldn't, but I will be."

Sherlock leapt to his feet, shedding his dressing gown. "No matter what happens, Doctor Watson, I can promise you one thing — it won't be boring. Now doesn't that sound appealing?"

"Oh, _god_ yes."


	3. Melancholia

Summary: I was browsing the bbc sherlock tag in Tumblr, which I actually have never done before, and ran across this post from a stranger:  
_Today is one of those days where I really need a hug from someone special and those antidepressants that I haven't got._  
_I'm just sort of done. Down and someone just write me a little thing? Just a little drabble fic thing with a depressed Sherlock and a comforting John? It would mean so much to me right now. It really would._ So, this is just a tiny little ficlet, for oswincumberbatch.

Chapter Text

When the black mood took him it was all-consuming. His incandescent, hyperactive thoughts dimmed to a low hum and then flickered, the magnificent whirring clockwork of his brain gummed and slowed by the thick and oily depression.

He had no idea how long he had been lying on the sofa, in the same position, bleak thoughts slouching and stumbling through his numbed grey matter.

_Insufferable. Arrogant. __**Freak.**_

He barely felt it at first, the warm dry palm on his forehead.

"Sherlock?" That voice — _John's_ voice — resonated somewhere deep in Sherlock's chest, loosening the knot of despair that had tightened there.

"C'mon, love." Warm hands were lifting, strong and steady, easing Sherlock upright, rubbing down stretched tendons and muscles sore and weak from hours of inactivity.

Sherlock felt a sudden warmth in his hand, his cold fingers tightening reflexively around the cup John had pushed into them.

He raised the cup to his face, breathing in the warm steam and the smell of Earl Grey. He took a sip, not realizing how dry his throat had been until the trickle of warmth soothed it, spice and honey spreading across his tongue.

John leaned back, settling Sherlock's head into the lee of his shoulder. He took Sherlock's other hand and held it, his grasp warm and firm, steady and strong, an anchor against the howling chaos.

Sherlock pressed back, leaning into the scent of John's skin, and sighed.


	4. Other

Summary: I just read the amazing Sterek fanfic "Stand Fast in Your Enchantments" by DevilDoll, and was bitten by the rabid plotbunny of Werewolf!Sherlock and Mage/Healer!John with magical tattoos. So here it is. :-D

Chapter Text

Every bone in John's body ached, a dull throbbing pain in contrast to the sharp flare of anguish every time he put weight on his ankle. He found himself leaning even more heavily into the warmth and strength of Sherlock's body as they stumped awkwardly up the seventeen steps to their flat. By the end Sherlock was half-carrying John, his arm around John's shoulders as John clung to him with an arm around his waist because the man was so stupidly tall. Not that Sherlock seemed to mind. John's weight seemed effortless to him; he didn't even seem tired as John collapsed onto the sofa with a relieved sigh, hissing in pain as he elevated his ankle to the armrest.

John closed his eyes, trying to stifle a pathetic groan. "I think there's some peas in the freezer, could you fetch me a bag?" he asked.

Silence greeted him, and he clenched his teeth in frustration. It would be just like Sherlock to bugger off to his room and not be seen for days, just when John was incapacitated. The man moved so silently, he was probably already gone.

John opened his eyes and turned his head, unable to suppress a full-body startle that sent another spike of pain through his ankle. Sherlock was sitting on the edge of the coffee table just a few hands-breadths' away, his mercurial silver eyes staring intently at John.

"What?" John asked, somewhat defensively.

Sherlock's eyes narrowed. "We're home now," he said. "We're alone. Why don't you just —" He wiggled his fingers at John's ankle in a sort of _abracadabra!_ motion that would have had John snickering if it wasn't for the curl of cold fear in his chest.

Slowly, deliberately, John lowered his ankle and pulled himself to sitting, hands clenched white-knuckled on the edge of the sofa. "What does _that_ mean?"

Sherlock huffed in frustration. "Don't be tedious, John. We've been flatmates for three weeks now. Did you honestly think that I didn't know what you were? I knew within the first three minutes."

John's mouth was suddenly dry and he swallowed nervously, absentmindedly tugging down on the cuff of his shirtsleeve. "I don't —"

The words stopped up in his throat as Sherlock's large warm hand shot out, grasping his wrist. "You don't have to hide these either." His thumb skimmed down, brushing the exposed skin at John's wrist where just the tiniest sliver of inked skin was revealed. "I've already deduced approximately seventy to eighty percent of them so far. An _ongk phra_ here." Sherlock's palm slid up, wrapping around John's left forearm. Sherlock was always unbelievably warm but now his palm seemed to burn through John's shirt, heat radiating through John's suddenly chilled skin. "A raven here. Should I go on?"

"No." John shivered, feeling naked, exposed under that silver gaze. "Are you — your deductions, is it — telepathy? Precognition?"

For a moment the tension in John's chest eased as Sherlock looked almost comically put-out, his nose wrinkling in disdain. "Don't be ridiculous, John, that would be _cheating_. My deductions are based in rational thought and scientific method."

John's thoughts felt slow and stumbling. "Oh. I just thought…"

"I am not _that_ kind of Other," Sherlock said. And then his gaze met John's again and he smiled almost playfully, teeth gleaming as his canines elongated just a fraction, the silver eyes suddenly flashing a vivid amber-gold.

John couldn't help his instinctive response as he jerked his arm out of Sherlock's grasp. "Jesus _fuck_," he stammered.

Sherlock blinked and as quickly as that his eyes and teeth were back to normal, his face now pale and watchful.

_"Wolf,"_ John said, and then cringed at himself for stupidly stating the obvious.

For once Sherlock failed to berate John for his dullness. "Yes," he simply replied. His voice sounded deliberately neutral, but a muscle twitched in his jaw. _"Problem?"_ he added, his tone sharper now.

"I —" John felt the tension in the air thicken at his hesitation, and he found himself shaking his head before he fully knew what his answer would be. "No, not a problem. Just an — adjustment."

Sherlock's nostrils flared and John wondered if he was able to scent a lie. Somewhat to John's surprise, however, he realized that he was telling the truth. This was still Sherlock. John didn't know too much about weres, but he knew enough to understand that they weren't innately any more dangerous than anyone who was Other. It was one of the first things John's mother had taught him in the hushed lessons they had held behind John's human father's back; Everyone, human or Other, had powers that could be used for good or ill.

However Sherlock determined John's sincerity, he seemed to relax. He leaned back, arms bracing himself against the coffee table as he adjusted the length of his legs before meeting John's eyes again.

"So," Sherlock said officiously, as if everything had been sorted to his satisfaction. He gestured to John's ankle. "Go on then."

John felt his shoulders hunching reflexively. "I can't." The shard of cold spreading through his chest now was not fear of discovery, but humiliation. He could feel the pink flush spreading up his neck and face as he avoided Sherlock's gaze.

Sherlock snorted impatiently. "Don't be ridiculous, John. Did we not just have this conversation? Me: Wolf. You: Healer. So…" Sherlock smirked. "Physician, heal thyself," he intoned.

John gritted his teeth at Sherlock's casual mockery. _"I can't,"_ he repeated, biting the words out this time through his clenched jaw. "I don't —" He took a deep breath, trying to sound matter-of-fact. "I don't have it anymore."

"Don't have it anymore?" Sherlock's voice had that lofty tone that by now John knew he adopted when he didn't understand something.

"My magic," John elaborated, forcing out the words. "I — it's just _gone_. I don't have it anymore, not even a spark. Not since Afghanistan." His stomach roiled with both humiliation and anger. "Why else would I…" He gestured, quick and angry, at his ruined shoulder. The end of both his surgical and military careers, the loss of everything that had previously given his life meaning.

"Oh." Sherlock's voice was quiet now, perhaps even a little chastened.

John stared down at his knees, still unable to meet Sherlock's eyes. He felt absolutely wretched. He would rest here for a moment, and then he would somehow manage to get up to his room, seeking oblivion in sleep.

"Well," Sherlock continued, lapsing instantly back to his usual arrogant tone. "It's a bit trickier than a psychosomatic limp, I suppose, but I enjoy a challenge. It shouldn't take us too long."

Surprise wrenched John's eyes back up, only to find Sherlock's gaze sparkling. "Too long for what?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "To get your magic back, of course. What did you think? For now, however, I'd better call Lestrade, tie up a few loose ends. We still have the confederate in the currency exchange office to locate. Small fish, I know, but…"

He was already pulling out his mobile, punching keys at a rapid pace as John's mouth no doubt hung open in shock. He snapped it shut.

"What do you mean, get my magic back? How do you know that's even _possible?"_ John interrupted, trying to tamp down on the little ember of hope that seemed to glow bright in his chest at the very thought of it.

"Hmm?" Sherlock seemed to wrench his attention away from his mobile with an effort. "Possible? Of course it is. Not even improbable. More than likely, I would say. Let's put the odds at forty percent within six weeks, ninety to ninety-five percent within six months."

"You —" Against his better judgment, John felt the ember in his chest flare into a small, flickering flame. "You can't know that."

"Certainly I can. I heal at an accelerated rate, John, it would be inconvenient if you could not keep pace with me. Ergo, we need to restore your healing. Quite obvious, if you ask me, but I understand that a lesser mind might have some difficulty connecting the dots…"

"Don't take the piss," John warned. "Not about this."

"Naturally not." Sherlock suddenly smiled, confident and so wolfish that John was amazed he hadn't seen it before. "Get some rest for now. We'll start in the morning."

John stared at that wolfish smile and those silver, unearthly eyes. He felt the flame in his chest building, starting to burn bright, as in that moment — for the first time since Afghanistan — John Watson began to _believe_.


	5. Caught

Summary: John Watson / Sherlock Holmes. Inspired by the following AU prompt: "tried to get the candy bar that didn't drop out of the vending machine and now my hand is stuck can u help me out" au

Chapter Text

"Problem?" The voice was a pleasant tenor, dryly amused.

Sherlock gritted his teeth, resting his head momentarily against the front of the vending machine.

"Not. At. _All,"_ he growled, emphasising each word with a sharp tug downwards of his forearm, trying unsuccessfully to extract his right hand from the vending machine's mechanism. "Please carry on about your business. I'm _fine." _

He pulled down with even greater force, rocking the machine forward, but his hand remained stubbornly stuck.

"Hang on, now. You'll sprain something." The voice had gentled, concerned now. Sherlock stubbornly refused to look around, and so he was startled when a soft warmth settled behind him.

"What —" Sherlock stuttered out as the man straddled Sherlock's calves without compunction, fitting his body neatly against Sherlock's back from hips to shoulders so that he could reach both arms around him.

"Trust me," the man said, his voice a soft rasp right behind Sherlock's ear, ruffling the curls there. "I'm practically an expert by now." A hand was lifted into Sherlock's view, compact and neat and competent with an intriguing hint of a gun callus, fingers wiggling slightly in emphasis. "Plus, small hands," the man added wryly.

"A surgeon's hands," Sherlock said without thinking, automatically cataloging the callus, the neatly scrubbed fingernails, the fading tan line. "But not just a surgeon — an army doctor."

The man's slow, sure movements stopped for just a moment — the slightest hitch before he was reaching forward again, leaning the firm weight of his body into Sherlock's as his right hand lifted the vending machine's flap. "Used to be," he said, his voice carefully scrubbed of emotion even as his left hand trembled almost imperceptibly.

"Afghanistan or…uh —"

Sherlock's voice suddenly gave out on him as the fingers of the man's left hand slid up the tendons of Sherlock's right arm, firm and sure. The action was competent, impersonal, and Sherlock was almost certain it shouldn't make him shiver like this. It must just be the late hour — too much caffeine and too little sleep, and the fading adrenaline from the case. Certainly not the fact that this man was touching him so gently and firmly, body pressed close against Sherlock's, his breath a gentle huff against the shell of Sherlock's ear.

"Easy now," the man coaxed, his grip tight on Sherlock's wrist as he rotated it gently. Sherlock flailed a little with his left hand, trying to keep it out of the way, and somehow managed to settle it on the man's thigh, firm and warm under thin cotton scrubs.

"It's no wonder — just look at the size of your hands," the man marveled almost absently. "Just a bit more…"

Sherlock hissed in pain as his wrist was overextended uncomfortably, and then suddenly his hand slithered free, the vending machine flap clanging shut as the man pulled both of their arms clear.

"There we go," the man said, a warm curl of satisfaction and reassurance in his voice. Sherlock was practically sitting in the man's lap now, and the man's arms were still solidly around him, his right hand bracing Sherlock's forearm while the fingers of his left hand tapped and nudged over the tendons of Sherlock's wrist in tender exploration.

"A bit sprained," the man decided, his chin now notched into the curve of Sherlock's neck and shoulder. "Come with me and I'll wrap it for you."

Suddenly the warmth was gone and Sherlock felt strangely cold, even in his suit jacket. He clambered around on his knees, watching the man lever himself upwards somewhat awkwardly, weight heavier on his left leg than his right, just as Sherlock had suspected from the tilt of his hips. Hips that were now at eye-level, narrow and lean in the drawstring-waisted scrubs. Hips that had nestled firmly against Sherlock's arse as the man had spooned up against Sherlock's body as if he belonged there…

"All right there?" Sherlock realized he had been staring at the man's groin for quite a long time now, and jerked his head up. The man's eyes were crinkled with amusement, blue so deep it almost appeared brown. Eyebrows raised toward a blond-grey hairline briefly before the man was reaching down, helping Sherlock to his feet.

"You're a tall one, aren't you?" the man said, brushing dust off Sherlock's jacket with swift, efficient movements of his hands — and was this_ flirting?_ Sherlock wasn't very good at detecting flirting when it was directed towards himself, but surely there was no need for the man to stand quite so close, and to put his hands on Sherlock quite so often?

"There we are," the man said, with a brief nod to himself as if confirming a job well done. "Follow me and we'll get you the rest of the way sorted."

"I — uh — Afghanistan or Iraq?" Sherlock found himself blurting out.

"Hmmm?" The eyebrows raised again. "That's right, you started to ask that before. Um, Afghanistan. But how did you know?"

"Simple, really. You're obviously familiar with this hospital, but not so wrapped up in your own grief as to be unwilling to offer assistance to a stranger, so you are staff here rather than a friend or relation of a chronically ill patient — no, you have the authority and mannerisms of a doctor, and the scrubbing of your hands, together with their natural form and economy, indicate surgeon. The fading tan line at your wrist speaks to prolonged sun exposure, but nothing above the wrist, so not from holiday." Oh god, what was he saying? The flood of words was a nervous reaction, instinctive showing off that was guaranteed to alienate the man instantly, but he couldn't seem to stop himself. "The tilt of your hips as you sat behind me indicated that you favor your right leg, and therefore you've sustained an injury. Combine that with a slight gun callus and arrive at not just doctor but Army doctor, recently invalided home from a warm climate with active combat. Therefore, Afghanistan or Iraq. Obvious."

"That's —"

Sherlock turned his attention to straightening the cuffs of his jacket, looking away so that he didn't have to watch the man's kind face twist with antagonism.

"— brilliant." The man finished.

"Pardon?" Sherlock's eyes snapped back to the man's face. Instead of the disgust he expected to find there the man was grinning, open and easy.

"Absolutely amazing. Extraordinary."

"I — that's not what people usually say."

The man's smile widened. "What do they usually say?"

"'Piss off,'" Sherlock admitted.

The man giggled — _giggled_ — and Sherlock found himself laughing too.

"John Watson," the man said, extending his right hand automatically before pulling it back almost as quickly. "Wait, no shaking hands for you until we get that wrist wrapped." He cast a glance sideways at the vending machine, where a packet of Jammie Dodgers still dangled mournfully. "And those biscuits have been there for at least two weeks now, you're better off without them. Let me take you to the cafeteria instead. Get something solid in you while I wrap that wrist up."

"That sounds…good," Sherlock managed, feeling a bit like he'd been caught up in a whirlwind by this small, fascinating, and entirely _unexpected_ man.

The man — _John_ — beamed. "Right. Off we go then." He immediately set off, a quick stride with an only slightly noticeable limp, and Sherlock couldn't help but fall into step beside him. His left hand patted his pocket, absently checking on the evidence he had brought to give to Lestrade as soon as the detective inspector had been cleared from his concussion. Oh well. That could wait. Sherlock was on the scent of something even more intriguing now.


End file.
